Chant Du Cygne
by ssapientia
Summary: He's teaching her of hate, how it's contagious. And disgust, for both him and herself.


_I do not own bleach_

**Chant Du Cygne **

"_The Silver Swan, Who living had no note_

_when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat_

_Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore_

_thus sang her first and last, and sang no more_

_Farewell, all joys! O death, come close my eyes!_

_More Geese than swans now live, more fools than wise"_

* * *

Whilst in solitude, this cell wide and empty, Orihime whispers tales into the cool air. First she shivers then a light fog leaves her lips illustrating her dreams, sourcing imagery for each word she croaks. Her voice rings out against the forbidding silence of her room (prison) her mouth dry and tired.

She's dreamed to many nightmares, craved into her mind like the patterns he's craved down her back. Aizen's painting her pictures of her friend's deaths with every touch on her skin like each brush stoke against a leathered canvas. Now she is alone, bathing in the aftermath of him, and while all her ears can hear is her own uneven breaths, her mind still hears his laboured one against her earlobe, smug still, and that sickening sloshing sound which forces her to battle with the little food in her stomach.

Aizen enjoys playing with her mind, everyone's to be fair, and has discovered a sick way in projecting the insecurities of his last human weakness onto her (simple and primitive, lust is by all means mortal).

Like her sensei and nakama he educates her, but it is not a lesson in despair. Despair holds the familiarity of an old unwanted acquaintance now she merely welcomes it back with a low bow and tight smile; her lips are stained with the salt of her tears as much as her hands are stained with the blood of her brother. Aizen, however, is teaching her of hate, how it's contagious, and disgust for both him and herself. At the end she thinks she is now nothing but a battered whore with a loathing for her master (her nails have dug deep into her palm, sweet red emerging from the wound is the only colour she's seen in weeks. It makes her laugh. _Cry_. )

"_Smile... "_

When he brings his hand to her face, cold and harsh, she prays to scream, rage and spit in his face, but immediately feels foolish as she squeaks. His thin lips twisted into a smirk, so she stands frozen, numb yet anxious. He chases her tears with persistence, capturing them with his thumb while Orihime does nothing but cry and watch his eyes, flat and impassive; following the lines of her face.

Under his gaze she grows self-conscious, not for vanities sake (she tells herself), but because it feels as if he is scrutinizing her, analyzing and evaluating.

Aizen is dissecting her, he began with her mind, alluding and rearranging, now he picks at her body, rough in treatment but unsurprisingly smooth in touch, he picks at the pieces he wants and claws at the rest. Objection always lies in Orihime's mind, but he makes her feel childish and ignorant with a single dignified eyebrow raise. So she tucks herself to sleep in her mind and sings of knights and princes with his hair in her mouth and hands digging caverns in her back.

Ulquiorra is quite and seemingly indifferent to his surroundings, but Orihime finds small comforts in his company. Not so long ago his reserved nature would have dulled her mood, Ulquiorra observers and stands at a distance. He does not smother her with false endearings or play with her hair and legs and... Orihime likes Ulquiorra and against his own judgement he pities her.

Aizen has no true use for Orihime, not anymore; she serves merely as ravenous bait. Her skin is cold, blue, and her wide eyes have sunk into her face. Her hair's shine exhausted and her curves shrunk. Yet he finds her more alluring now, broken and dying, she is a child of his mind, proof of his destructive nature. She might live but her soul has died here, it has died with him, he cradles it between his long fingers and juggles it for mere entertainment. He saw the last sparks of her fly and on his lips can still taste her innocence, between his teeth he picks out her hope. She is beneath his fingernails, the last of her smooth skin, and is forever at end of his manhood, poised still like a doll.

He smirks, leans and sips. Then waits for the fools to come.

* * *

**AN **_inspired by a terrible mood :) feeling much better, tell me what you think. Abit weird yeeeaaah I know!_


End file.
